


Whumptober 2020

by Woland



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bad Archangels, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Armageddon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Sacrifice, Torture tw, i'm a sap, what can i say, yes I gave them a happy ending after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27113917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woland/pseuds/Woland
Summary: Eeek! I've never done a whumptober fic before, but this idea popped into my head and it felt like a good fit.  Combines prompts #2 ("In the hands of the enemy") and #6 ("Please").
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

“-owley.”

A voice drifts in through layers of swamp mist that seems to have fogged his brain. A familiar voice, worried, persistent.

“Crowley!”

“Zrrphale?”

He rolls his head toward the sound, groaning as the feeble movement seems to awaken the heretofore dormant pain somewhere in the back of his skull that begins to pulsate in time with his corporation’s heart. _Ow_ , he thinks. _Ow, what the fuck._

He forces one inexcusably uncooperative eye to open, grimacing as the pounding in his head picks up a notch. And then forgets all about his pain because that’s when he sees him: the angel, _his_ angel, sitting on the floor of what appears to be some sort of glass-walled cage. 

“There you are, my dear.” Aziraphale smiles down at him, but the smile is strained around the edges and worry is unmistakable in the stormy blue eyes. And, oh, Crowley doesn’t like this at all.

The fog in his head is slowly starting to clear but doesn’t go away completely, and he becomes aware of an uncomfortable, binding pressure around his neck. Stiff, trembling fingers brush against something cold and metallic. _A collar_ , he thinks grimly. A powers binding one, if the aching emptiness within him is anything to go by. Oh, this is not good. This is definitely not good. 

The worst of it is that he has absolutely no idea what happened. The last thing he remembers is settling down to sleep with his beloved angel by his side, their arms wrapped around each other. And now… Now…

“Wha…” _happened?,_ he wants to say, _what’s going on?_ But words stick needle-like in his parched throat, questions dying out on a half-formed croak. 

Aziraphale seems to understand him just fine, however, and he opens his mouth to respond only to snap it shut in the very next instant, his eyes widening in fear at something behind Crowley’s back.

Crowley frowns at that. Twists and folds his strangely sleep-logged body until he manages to wrangle it into some approximation of semi-upright, turning his head toward the powerful and unmistakably holy presence he has only now become aware of.

_Archangels_. _Three of them. Well, shit…._

“Good of you to finally join us.” Michael flashes him a thin-lipped grimace of a smile. “I was afraid Sandalphon got a bit overzealous bringing you two in here.”

_Ah,_ Crowley thinks, _that explains the headache._

Beside her Sandalphon beams with unabashed pride.

Crowley wobbles to his feet. “Why…,” he rasps. Licks his lips, tries again. “Why are we here? What do you want?”

Michael raises one perfectly manicured eyebrow, looks between the two of them: Aziraphale, standing now, his palms pressed flat against the glass wall of his cage; Crowley with his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“I should think it were obvious,” she says, waving her hand carelessly in the direction of Aziraphale’s cell. 

A dark curtain that obscured the top of the cage from view disappears, and Crowley is treated to the sight of a rusty dark gray cauldron swinging from a rope high above Aziraphale’s head like the proverbial Sword of Damocles. Crowley doesn’t need to see what’s in it. He knows. Can feel its infernal contents even through the veil of holiness that surrounds him. 

He swallows down against a sharp wave of terror that rolls through him at the sight. Tries his best to assume an expression of nonchalance.

“What’s the point of this?” he asks, hoping they blame the shaky raspiness of his voice on his sorry physical state. “You know we’re immune to these things.”

Michael’s lip twitches disdainfully and she motions to Sandalphon, who steps eagerly over to Crowley, a golden whip suddenly in his hand. 

_Swish_!

And the blessed weapon slashes across his shoulder and back, the blinding, burning pain nearly bringing him down to his knees.

He bites his lip, desperate to hold back a scream that fights to break free because it burns, it burns, it _burns_! 

“Don’t bother pretending, demon,” Michael scoffs into the pain-twisted lines of his face. “We know all about the little trick you pulled.” Continues, her voice haughty and dry, “Our plan was to bring you both here and give our wayward angel a chance to redeem himself for the corruption you had wrought upon his soul by executing you properly before us. However….”

She pauses, all regal lines and grandstanding, glances smugly at Aziraphale who stands where he was, pale and wide-eyed, his gaze locked on Crowley.

“… your… _friend_ here claims that there _was_ no corruption. That you two are _in_ _love_ with each other.” She moves her gaze back to Crowley, lets out an incredulous, mocking bark of laughter that is swiftly echoed by the two other archangels. “How outrageous!” she declaims. “How absurd! To claim that a demon is capable of loving _anything_ , let alone an angel! But he insists.” 

She shrugs with an expression of a parent whose child has disappointed their expectations, and Crowley’s sluggish, pain-stunned brain latches on to that moment’s pause, seizing on the solution provided to him by the archangel herself: the only viable solution left for him – the one where Aziraphale gets to walk away from this mess. 

“S’true,” he cuts in, before Michael speaks again. “I did corrupt him. Made him believe I love him. Wasn’t easy, but….” He spreads his arms out in a ‘look at me’ gesture. “…original tempter, amiright?”

He even adds a, what he hopes is, an insolent smirk for good measure. He makes very, very sure to NOT look at Aziraphale, who’s virtually vibrating with tension behind the thick pane of glass, calling on Crowley to stop.

“So it was all me. The angel, he just… he was a tool, yeah? A… a glorious tool. No need for you to bother with him.”

Michael’s smile is sharp enough to cut glass. “Let’s test that theory, shall we.”

She steps closer, and he barely suppresses a flinch as she reaches out to run her fingers gently, almost lovingly along the metal collar encircling his neck.

“You know what this device does, demon, do you not?”

“I do.” He nods.

She hums. Takes a step back. “If at any moment once we begin you wish us to stop, all you have to do is ask me to release you. As soon as I do and this collar opens, the cauldron overturns and Hellfire douses everything inside that cage.” She stabs a finger blindly over her shoulder. “Your powers come back and you are free to leave. And Aziraphale is… well….” Her expression becomes one of bored distaste. “…what he should have been when we first tried to execute him years ago. Ash.”

He flicks a glance up at the cauldron – a deadly, cast-iron shadow hovering over the pale, blond-haired form of his angel. His beautiful, sweet bastard of an angel who’s shaking his head at him even now, pleading with him to walk away, to leave him here, leave him behind. As if Crowley could ever do that.

“And if I don’t?”

It’s Uriel who responds, gruff and superior, her full lips pursed in disgust. “Be under no illusions, demon, it won’t be pleasant for you. If what the traitor claims is true and you really… _love_ him….” She near spits the word, revulsion thick in her voice. “…then I expect you would endure for a time before giving in. But you _will_ give in, I have no doubt about that. You are a demon, after all. Self-sacrifice is not in your nature.” 

“Right.”

The supercilious conviction in her tone of voice is almost enough to make him snap his teeth at her, but he reminds himself that now is not the time, that what he needs to do is focus, prepare himself, gather what strength he has. He has a feeling he’s going to need it. 

So he settles on a snarl of smile and a deep, if shaky, breath. 

“I’m ready.”

Uriel snaps her fingers, and he suddenly finds himself back on his knees, his feet and wrists chained to the floor. Another snap and his clothes are gone, the naked curve of his back exposed. 

Michael squats before him, ice-cold blue eyes boring into his.

“All you have to do is ask,” she reminds him, then nods at the two archangels behind him. “Begin.”

And the blessed whip whistles through the air, coming down mercilessly onto his bare skin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice I changed the chapter count. 😬 I thought I could avoid it, I really did. But the chapter break just worked so much better where I left it. The next chapter should be just a short (and, hopefully, sweet) epilogue.

Chapter 2

He loses time. Somewhere between one searing blow of the whip and the next, time seems to stutter and slow, the room warping and wavering around him like garbled reception on TV. And then time winks out altogether, the signal lost.

When it comes back, he finds himself sprawled flat on his stomach, his back on fire, his head thick and heavy like the cast-iron skillet Aziraphale bought last year to cook his crepes in. Voices filter in: one – calm and apathetic, the other – agitated and raspy and so… so… familiar….

“Please,” that voice is saying. _Begging_ , really. And that’s not right, the begging. That voice, it should never sound like that. It should chuckle and chide and be stern and warm and teasing and whisper words of love and devotion and moan so exquisitely amid the rumpled satin sheets. 

“Please stop this, please!” The voice continues to entreat, breaking on a suspiciously wet inhale. “You don’t need to do this. Just… just let him go.”

He frowns, mulling over the desperate sounding words whose meaning his pain-swamped brain can’t seem to parse. All he knows is the owner of that voice sounds like he’s hurting, and that Crowley swore, he swore he would never let that happen. And so… So he needs to… He needs to….

His eyes are closed again. Huh. He didn’t think he closed them. Didn’t plan to, at least.

He forces them open again. Plants a shaky hand on the floor beside him, trying to push himself upright. And promptly flops back down as his hand slips on a puddle of warm, sticky goo that seems to cover the floor all around him.

_Funny_ , he thinks, _this almost looks like demon blood._ Then, _oh,_ as realization dawns, _oh, tha’sss not good._ No wonder he feels so sluggish and shaky and… cold, so… so cold.

A white blob moves into his field of vision, and he blinks up at it as it slowly, reluctantly swims into focus.

A narrow face, sharp lines, cold, unfeeling icicles of eyes. 

_Michael._

“You ready for me to release you yet, demon?”

_Ah_. The gears in his brain finally click into action, the memories of the last few minutes? hours? days? slotting into place. _The bargain. Of course._

He pulls his legs under him. Places both hands on the floor, careful to avoid the slickest of the spots. Pushes up.

“Go fffuck yoursssself,” he spits, the effect of his defiance likely ruined with the way he wobbles unconvincingly on trembling knees.

She understands him all the same. 

Her face sours, eyes flashing with annoyance as she straightens back out from her half-crouch. And he knows what’s coming next, can hear movement behind him, can feel the blessed whip move closer to the bloodied tatters that is his back. And he tenses in preparation of more pain to come. 

“Wait.” Michael raises her hand, shaking her head slightly at the archangel behind him before she shifts her glacial gaze back to Crowley. “I appreciate your… stubbornness, demon, but this is taking too long, and I am running out of patience.”

“Got ssssomewhere elssse to be?” He gives her his best grin.

Michael stares him down, unimpressed. “I do, as a matter of fact.” She holds out her hand, a short celestial broadsword weaving itself out of thin air to fit perfectly into her awaiting palm. Her fingers close around the handle, her sharp gaze never leaving Crowley.

And then she strikes.

He gasps as the sword plunges into his chest, deep, deep, deep, rending him apart, driving all the air out of his corporation’s lungs. His chest is on fire, blood boiling in the path of the holy blade, and he jerks his body backwards in a desperate attempt to escape the searing agony.

Michael doesn’t let him. Her free hand grips his shoulder, fingers digging in, and she yanks him ruthlessly forward, letting the blade sink into him all the way up to the hilt.

He chokes and shudders at the casual violence of it, his chained hands scrabbling uselessly to wrest himself free of the archangel’s deadly grip. But she holds firm, pressing down on the hilt with all her angelic strength, until he feels like his corporation’s ribs are about to give way under the relentless assault. 

She eases the pressure ever so slightly, pulls the blade back a fraction, allowing him a moment of questionable respite. And then she twists it, quick and sharp, and he feels something tear deep within him. Something old, something primeval, something…

_Oh_ , he thinks. _Oh, tha’sss… tha’sss very… not good._

There’s loud ringing in his ears, a wild desperate howl of the wind. And it’s strange how the wind almost sounds like his angel, innit. Strange how….

Michael pulls the blade free. Steps back to leave him swaying feebly on his rapidly weakening knees.

He blinks numbly at her retreating form, her image flickering before him like a dying bulb.

Dying. Hah. Tha’sss… tha’sss what he’s doing, innit. He can feel it, can feel his essence unraveling with every useless beat of his heart. 

Well, fuck…

The archangel before him wobbles and tilts to the side, and he wonders at the oddness of it until he recognizes the rough feel of the stone underneath his cheek and realizes that he’s the one who’s done the tilting, the one who’s lying once again flat on the floor.

“Well, demon?” she asks, her face too close all of a sudden. “Are you ready _now_?”

He stares up at the warping, flickering image of her, his thoughts racing and tripping over one another and twisting together in a frantic heap. He’s dying, the mangled threads of his essence rapidly, inexorably falling apart. And when he dies, when he dies… what guarantee does he have that the archangels will let Aziraphale go? How can he trust that his angel will be safe after he’s gone, after he’s no longer there to protect him.

“You don’t have a lot of time left to waste,” Michael continues talking, ripping him out of the whirlwind of his thoughts. “But if I remove your collar now, you may have a little bit of it for one small miracle. Maybe just enough to keep your sorry self from dying.” She raises an expectant eyebrow at him. “Well?”

But he’s no longer listening, his brain stuttering to a halt at her earlier words. One miracle. He will have time for one miracle. One chance to set things right. And suddenly he knows, he knows _exactly_ what he needs to do. And it’s so simple, so perfectly simple that he feels like laughing.

“Release me,” he says.

It comes out as a choke instead, a wet helpless gurgle that spills forth a thick glob of ichor he spits out weakly onto the floor before him.

Still, Michael understands. He glimpses a triumphant smirk on her face as she steps back from him, raising her hand as she prepares to snap her fingers.

He raises his hand, too. Lifts his trembling digits a hair’s breadth above the ichor-stained floor, panting with the effort. And when he feels the damned collar fall away, his powers flooding in to reconnect with his dying essence, he shifts his gaze beyond Michael’s shoulder, toward the no longer distinguishable blob of white where he thinks his angel might be.

And then he snaps.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Time is a strange, warped thing, Aziraphale thinks as he sits in his old comfy armchair that he had miracled up into their bedroom years ago so he could spend the nights reading next to his demon, guarding his often nightmare-plagued sleep. It's what he's doing now, too. Only the book he’s been trying to read lies unopened in his lap, his mind too distracted, too haunted with nightmares of his own to allow him the escape of reading. So he simply sits and watches and remembers.

Remembers how time stretched, impossibly, excruciatingly long, there in that room when Crowley was being tortured before his very eyes, while he was forced to look on from the power binding circle of his prison, helpless to do anything but beg and scream himself raw. Remembers how it raced, maddeningly, inexorably, spilling through his trembling fingers like the blood from Crowley’s terrible wound when he was trying keep his demon from slipping away from him.

He presses his lips together – tight, tight, tight to hold back a remembered scream. Clenches his fingers before him until their shaking stops, until the white-knuckled pressure becomes an impossible, painful force that brings his human bones almost to the point of breaking. 

It does nothing to interrupt the loop of memories that’s been playing in his head without pause or mercy: the blessed whip that came down on Crowley’s back over and over and over, a spray of dark, demon blood arcing through the air after each vicious blow, as the demon grew weaker and weaker; the way Crowley’s body seized and shuddered in agony when the holy blade pierced his chest; the fading spark of life in the molten-gold eyes that stared blindly toward him; the feeble smile that touched Crowley’s blood-coated lips an instant before his bloodied fingers of his right hand twitched in a shaky facsimile of a snap. A goodbye smile. 

_He’d stopped paying attention to the cauldron of Hellfire above him when the blessed whip left its first scorching, bleeding mark on Crowley’s bare back. When Crowley collapsed under the vicious assault, slumping, limp like a ragdoll, onto ichor-covered floor, he’d begged for Michael to snap her fingers and turn the cauldron over, to let his demon go. When Crowley was stabbed…_

_When Crowley was stabbed, he didn’t beg anymore. He had no more voice to beg. No more breath to cry. No more strength to stand._

_His legs failed him and he dropped, his knees hitting the ground in tandem with Crowley’s body. Pain didn’t register. What was physical pain now when his very soul was being rent viciously asunder? The love of his life was dying before him, so what did anything else matter? What did his own life matter? It didn’t, not in the slightest. And he welcomed the sharp snap of Michael’s fingers that signaled the overturning of the cauldron above him. Welcomed the deadly heat of the infernal flames that rushed down towards him intent on consuming him whole._

It will be over soon _, he told himself,_ for both of us. It will be over soon.

_But the flames never reached him, never even singed the edges of his hair. Because the air shifted around him suddenly with a pull of a powerful miracle, and he found himself suddenly on his knees on the blood-stained floor beside Crowley._

_He froze for all of one human heartbeat, his grief-wracked mind taking that moment to orient itself in his new reality. And then he rushed towards his beloved, leaving his corporeal form behind to allow his essence to plunge into the very heart of Crowley’s ravaged one. To latch on to the scorched, severed threads of it and pull and weave and mend. He poured all of himself into the demon, all of his power, all of his love. Everything else faded into the background – the blood-spattered marble floor underneath them, the hungry roar of Hellfire within the glass cage, the dying howls of agony from the three archangels that his clever, clever demon threw into the path of those infernal flames in his place…. None of it mattered. None but his demon, still so hurt, still so weak, still… still so close to dying._

_He was completely drained by the time he felt the threads of Crowley’s essence were secured enough for him to let go. Had barely enough wherewithal to flop back into his own corporation before he found himself stuck in the non-corporeal ether. That, again, mattered little. His powers would come back with enough time and rest. All that mattered was that Crowley, for the time being, was safe. That safety was precarious, yes, his life still hanging in the balance. But he would keep. He would keep until Aziraphale got them both home and rested. Rested just enough to pour more of his healing power into the demon’s damaged essence._

_Home. He just needed to get them home._

_He gathered his demon in his arms and stood, just as the door to their prison flew open and Gabriel burst in, his normally impassive face twisted with apprehension and worry. There was surprise on his face, too. Like he wasn’t expecting to see him here. Like maybe he had no idea what his colleagues had been up to in this room. Or, perhaps, he simply wasn’t expecting to see him alive._

_Aziraphale didn’t much care either way._

_“What happened here?” Gabriel asked, casting a nervous glance toward the glass cage, where Hellfire still raged, untempered. “Where are Michael and the others?”_

_“Dead,” Aziraphale replied coldly, making a move toward the open door._

_“You… you killed them?” Gabriel sputtered, a new kind of awed horror reflecting in his eyes as he raised his hand toward Aziraphale as if to stop him._

_Aziraphale’s wings snapped open, flinging the archangel back. His eyes blazed as he spoke, the righteous, mighty anger, the anger that had been building up within him as he watched his beloved be tortured ruthlessly by the very beings that professed themselves soldiers of Good, spilling forth in every snarled word._

_“I warned you all what would happen if you didn’t leave us alone. I warned you, and you didn’t listen. And now three archangels paid the price.” He nodded sharply toward the cage, taking a very unangelic satisfaction in the way Gabriel’s face paled at his words. “I suggest you refrain from any further attempts to harm either of us, Gabriel, or you just might run out of angels.”_

_And he walked away, his demon cradled with utmost gentleness against his chest. There were no more attempts to stop him._

Months, he thinks numbly. It has been months since they returned. Months of waiting and guarding and praying. And healing, sporadically, in all-too-short bursts of power transfer, pouring what little power managed to regenerate within him straight into Crowley’s essence. Long, endless months as time stretched and dragged, ticked away the minutes and hours and days and weeks.

Until…

Movement from the bed startles him out of the gloom of his musings. A barely there twitch of the long, delicate fingers, a soft intake of breath.

“Crowley?”

He reaches for that pale hand, clasps it with reverent desperation in both of his. The book falls to the floor, forgotten.

“Crowley, dear, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?”

A beat passes, then two, then three. Finally, those paper-thin eyelids flutter, slowly, laboriously rising open to a bleary, sleepy half-mast. And Aziraphale can’t help the tremulous, relieved smile that pulls at his lips when he is finally treated to that long-awaited glimmer of amber gold. Can’t help the grateful tears that spring in his own eyes at the beautiful sight.

“There you are, darling.”

Crowley blinks at him sluggishly, brow furrowed with effort. “…’ng’l?” The frown deepens as the haziness in his golden gaze dissipates, the slitted pupils narrowing worriedly on Aziraphale’s face. “Wha’sss wrong?”

“You don’t remember?” His smile wobbles again.

Crowley stares up at him a moment longer, bemused, and Aziraphale can see the instant that the confusion clears, the instant that the memories, such as they were, return. The demon’s eyes widen and he jolts upwards with a sharp gasp, frantically scanning every inch of the angel before him.

Aziraphale places a restraining hand on his chest. Gently but firmly pushes him to lie back down.

“You’re not hurt?” Crowley resists him, feebly, eyes wild. “Hellfire–”

“Never touched me,” he assures. “Not even a singe.”

The words have the desired effect, and the fight goes out of Crowley just like that, the demon collapsing back onto the sheets like a string-cut puppet. “It worked,” he exhales, eyes closed, a wide, beatific smile gracing his lips. “It worked, it worked, it worked.”

Aziraphale thinks back to that room, to Crowley’s mangled body crumpled in a lifeless heap in a pool of his own blood…. 

The hand still clasped around Crowley’s twitches, squeezing tight.

“It very nearly didn’t.”

Crowley opens his eyes at that, his brow knitted once more in confusion.

“You very nearly died.” Aziraphale is proud to note that his voice catches only slightly over the awful words.

The demon, inexplicably, smiles wider still. “Would have been worth it,” he insists. “You would have lived.” 

And he says it so casually, so matter-of-fact. Like it’s no big deal, like his death would have meant nothing, like Aziraphale was the only one that mattered here, like Aziraphale wouldn’t–

Aziraphale suddenly gets a very strong urge to throttle him.

“Tartan,” he says, his body virtually vibrating with a rush of helpless, almost desperate anger. At Crowley for being so ridiculously, so utterly selfless, so uncaring of his own pain, so completely unaware of his worth. And at himself, oh so much more at himself, for not doing enough to show his demon just how treasured he is, how precious, how _loved_.

“Wot?”

He takes a deep breath, forces the anger down. Explains as calmly as he can manage, “If you ever do something so decidedly foolish again, I will make every piece of clothing you own a sensible tartan-patterned beige.”

The demon’s eyebrows rise comically. “You’re serious.”

“Oh, very much so.” Aziraphale nods. “And I will ensure that the miracle is strong enough that you won’t be able to simply undo it until _I_ decide that you have been punished enough. I will also replace the seats in the Bentley with tartan-patterned fabric, and, if your transgression is egregious enough, I may also change her outward appearance to match that charming little car that Adam’s father drives.”

Crowley gapes at him, baffled, and worried, and so, so very pale. “You… you wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I very much would. And I suggest you keep that in mind the next time, because if you d… if you d-die…, I’ll… I’ll….” He’s shaking again, he realizes. Trembling so violently, he feels like he’s about to come apart at the seams.

There are arms around him suddenly, and he finds himself pressed flush against a strong, slender chest. “I’m sorry, angel.” The soft murmur of Crowley’s breath tickles the skin of his ear. “I’m sorry. I never meant…. I just wanted you to live.”

Aziraphale’s fingers twist in the silken fabric of Crowley’s pajama top. Latch on, clinging to him for dear life as his shaking slowly begins to subside. “I can’t do that without you,” he professes wetly into the sharp indent of his clavicle. “I can’t, Crowley. Don’t ever put me in that position again. Don’t even think about it, or I’ll…”

“Or you’ll make me wear tartan for the rest of my life and turn my baby girl into a glorified four-wheel whoopee cushion,” Crowley recites dutifully.

“That’s right.”

“And we can’t have _that_.”

“Indeed.”

Crowley hums, thoughtful. “I guess I don’t have a choice then.”

Aziraphale lets his arms tighten around his demon, lets a bit of his Grace and love and need seep through into his embrace. “No, darling,” he whispers urgently. “You really, really don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, my first foray into whumptober. See? I managed to get that happy ending in after all :) What do you think?


End file.
